


jen potom všechny šrámy léčí

by armethaumaturgy



Series: Left Hand AU [7]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: (it's complicated isn't it), Cronos Syndrome, Cross (X-tale) - Freeform, Cross/Dust - Freeform, Dust (Dusttale) - Freeform, Ecto-Genitalia (Undertale), Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Horror (Horrotale), Horror/Dust - Freeform, M/M, Mental Breakdown, One-Sided Attraction, Vaginal Fingering, Vomiting, crossdust, horrordust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:35:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29947332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armethaumaturgy/pseuds/armethaumaturgy
Summary: He’d thought of Cross’ desire to knock Killer down a peg or two as amusing, at first. But now that he had, and only Nightmare himself held sway over his, it no longer felt as amusing. As he entered the laundry room, he thought of Killer and the grin he would give Dust when he got demanding, like he found it not unlike a game of sorts. The basement’s chill became all too apparent on his exposed legs when he remembered Cross’ order to only come to him.As he pulled the bundle of clothes out of the washing machine and pulled them on, still wet, he found himself missing the hot burn of Killer’s knife along his bones.His scarf felt heavy, hanging off his neck like a noose with how wet it was. The thought of losing all he had, of losing Killer and Horror, of losing Nightmare’s care, made it all that heavier, somehow.
Relationships: Sans/Sans (Undertale)
Series: Left Hand AU [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2181261
Comments: 13
Kudos: 79





	jen potom všechny šrámy léčí

**Author's Note:**

> takes place immediately after láska si žádá péči. 
> 
> i will also, once again, heavily warn about the fear of being replaced. it leads to dust's mentality being fucked, and he does a lot of things he wouldn't normally. please proceed with caution

Dust awoke in soft bedding, covered in a blanket, and immediately knew something was _wrong._

Cold sweat drenched him; he was naked, which wasn’t all that unusual, but his spotty memories only supplied him with the image of Cross’ sneer and the words he’d said last night — wait, what time was it? This wasn’t his room, the ceiling was too dark. His bed had the canopy, which made the off-black plaster a dull gray. It had to be Cross’ room, he took his down, it _had to be—_

“You’re awake…” came a rumble from his side. Dust’s head whipped towards it, joints tensing in preparation.

He didn’t expect to see Horror, sat by the headboard and fiddling with his phone. He was wearing all his clothes. Dust’s head hurt.

“Horror,” he said, like he was tasting the name, his confusion palpable in the tone. Like he wasn’t _quite_ sure of the other’s identity.

“...hungry?”

Dust watched as the bigger skeleton reached over and grabbed a plate of cookies from the bedside table, passing it over. He grabbed it on instinct, making the blanket fall to his lap. He felt exposed, despite there not being that much to see.

Horror scrutinized him with his dim eye, thinking for a moment, before understanding seemed to dawn on him. 

“...right. I put your hoodie… in the wash.”

Dust couldn’t do much else but blink. Why would he do that? Dust wasn’t quite sure what had happened after Papyrus’ ‘talk’, but he could guess. His pelvis throbbed with dull pain. They must’ve fucked him after he’d passed out. 

_Just as well,_ he thought absently. That way, he couldn’t piss Cross off again. Anxiety swirled in his nonexistent stomach at the soldier’s absence. He’d probably gotten bored of Dust’s body at some point.

That still didn’t explain why he felt — and _was_ — so clean. Or why Horror had taken the scrap of a hoodie off of him. He’d never shown interest in helping him out, not after the first time didn’t work out. Maybe he enjoyed the panic when Dust got fully exposed? It wasn’t something he would have pegged the other for, but if that was it, he could work with it. 

Probably.

Horror clambered to his feet, and Dust’s SOUL should _not_ have skipped a beat like it had. He had been left alone after he’d been used. It wasn’t anything unusual.

~~But he’d never been told he’d be replaced.~~

He found himself shaking, staring down at his lap, at the soft linen of the blanket bunched between his phalanges. Horror’s steps thudded through the room. 

_Thud, thud._

He stopped, and Dust’s mind was invaded by the silence. He could see the tail end of Papyrus’ scarf in the corner of his socket. Where was— _Where was his scarf? Where was— Stars—_

“...here,” Horror said, suddenly by the bed again. Dust didn’t even hear the _thud thud_ of him returning. His mouth tasted like cotton.

Horror was holding out a hoodie, suspiciously small for him, suspiciously faded along the bottom hem. There was no dust on the article of clothing, and it still had sleeves instead of ripped, frayed edges, but it _had_ to be one of his.

When he didn’t say anything, didn’t move, Horror sighed, a low, tired sound. “You… left it here… last time,” he explained, like that _explained_ any of this. “I kept it… smells like you.”

Dust looked up at him, ribcage shaking audibly with whatever mix of emotions he couldn’t recognize this time. He was half-tempted to go beg Nightmare to give him a reprieve from them again. Papyrus was sneering at them from the side. Dust couldn’t look at him, not when he wore that expression. He looked too much like Cross.

Dust hesitated before taking the hoodie, his sockets damp.

“…what's wrong?” Horror asked softly, “I'm sorry… would've… returned it if I'd known… it would upset you."

Dust huffed in a breath, pretending his bones weren't crawling. “It's not that. I'm not upset,” he assured him. “It's just... no one's really wanted a reminder of me before, you know. No one's ever missed me when I'm not there.”

A look he’d never seen before passed over Horror’s features, and Dust grit his own teeth, shrugging the hoodie on. It felt like a second skin, disregarding the fact that he didn’t have any in the first place, and he felt like himself with the hood pulled over his head.

Well, almost.

“Where’s my scarf?” he asked, scooting off the bed. His legs were on full display, but he’d long since squandered the impulsive desire to cover all the hideous battle scars covering his bones.

Horror took a second to reply, and finally said, “Cross…”

Dust flinched.

“...he went to wash the rest… of your clothes.”

He could faintly remember being told to strip last night. Or maybe he’d just imagined that? Either way, the two must’ve done a number on him. He wasn’t sure if he was glad he couldn’t remember any of it, or if he was simply disappointed.

“Must’ve been fun then, huh?” he quipped. “Usually, I’d be doing that — why’d he bother?”

That same look settled on Horror’s face again and Dust was finding himself anxious. He had no idea what it was, or what it meant, and that was dangerous.

“...do you…” Horror started, but just as quickly trailed off, shaking his head.

Dust waited for a moment longer, but when it became apparent Horror wouldn’t continue, he just offered a quiet ‘thank you’, shoved his hands into his pockets, and shortcut into the basement.

He’d thought of Cross’ desire to knock Killer down a peg or two as amusing, at first. But now that he had, and only Nightmare himself held sway over his, it no longer felt as amusing. As he entered the laundry room, he thought of Killer and the grin he would give Dust when he got demanding, like he found it not unlike a game of sorts. The basement’s chill became all too apparent on his exposed legs when he remembered Cross’ order to only come to him.

As he pulled the bundle of clothes out of the washing machine and pulled them on, still wet, he found himself missing the hot burn of Killer’s knife along his bones.

His scarf felt heavy, hanging off his neck like a noose with how wet it was. The thought of losing all he had, of losing Killer and Horror, of losing Nightmare’s care, made it all that heavier, somehow.

He allowed himself to shed a couple tears, down in the basement where he knew no one would know, but no more.

He had to adjust, so he’d be interesting to Cross like he’d been interesting to Killer.

Imagining another _Dust_ taking his place made magic surge up his throat. For some reason, the lilac puddle left on the tiles after he was done dry heaving reminded him of an aftermath of one of Killer’s games, and he wept again over it.

* * *

Every second of holding his blasters felt like a countdown to disaster. From beyond the purple glow, Dust could see Cross, barely paying him any attention. His expression was unreadable, reminding him of Horor, and maybe the crawling down his spine wasn’t all caused by his draining magic.

He pushed more of it into the blasters without needing a prompt, and hoped it would appease Cross.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, over Papyrus’ chant of _‘kill him, brother. he’s nothing but a walking bait of EXP. someone will get to him first and it’ll all be a waste,’_ he could hear church bells.

“That’s enough.”

Was it that time already?

Despite all his instincts screeching like a cacophony inside his skull, the blasters faded from existence. He stepped up to Cross and awaited instructions.

Cross dropped down to the ground and beckoned Dust with him. He didn’t need to be told twice, settling into Cross’ lap and feeling the ghost of a breath along the back of his neck, through the hood.

It felt as familiar as it felt like a prison.

Cross didn’t say a word as he looked over Dust’s shoulder and pulled his shorts down. Dust summoned his body before the other could change his mind.

Cross' fingers slipped through the slick, skirting his cock, and Dust forced his body to be as still as he could. He was shivering, but he didn't know how to stop that. Didn't know if Cross would get upset by it.

He let out a moan, a touch too loud, a touch too fake, when Cross plunged a finger into him. It was as slow as the first time, dragging over his walls, and Dust tried his best not to tense in anticipation of the moment Cross would switch it up.

One finger became two, and then three, and Dust was sure he was overcompensating in the noise department, but that was fine. Anything to make sure Cross thought he wasn't resisting. That he could be good.

It wasn't all that hard, after Papyrus' voice faded into the background of his exaggerated noises, to find a measure of enjoyment in the slow movements of Cross' fingers.

It wasn't enough, wouldn't be enough to take the edge off, but he kept his mouth shut, only using it for the whorish moans, and simply canted his hips into the motions when he was allowed to. His sockets fell shut and he sighed out, a real sound that he had no control over, when Cross hit a spot deep within him.

He rested his head back against the other's shoulder, melting into the pleasure. It was like slow molasses, crawling along his spine and burrowing into his bones, unlike the sharp spikes he was used to. He was close enough that he could hear Cross' inhale, like he was about to say something.

Dust's body went rigid as a board. His chest stuttered on a breath, and cold sweat drenched him. What had he done _wrong? Had he pissed Cross off? Was he expecting something from him? Was he bored? Did he already get fed up with him?_

"You... sound nice," Cross muttered, his hand still pumping into him, the walls clenched down just like the rest of his tense body.

It took entirely too long to place the meaning behind the words, even with his sobered mind.

Dust waited, to see if he said anything else, but Cross seemed content to keep teasing his cunt, fingers squelching in the dripping slick with each flick of his wrist. When he scissored them, Dust's body shook.

At least he knew Cross liked when he sounded like he was being paid for it, even if he couldn't get himself to calm down again, not enough for the pleasure to feel the same as it had. But it was still there, and it was enough to bring him over the edge, when Cross wrapped a hand around his cock as well and jerked him in time with his thrusts.

Dust came with a groan hissed through his still-grit teeth, and his body went lax, aftershocks making his limbs feel leaden. Cross touched him through it, but pulled away once Dust couldn't stop trembling against the sensations.

He would've loved to bask in the afterglow, to enjoy the few rare moments of silence and reprieve from Papyrus, and from all the other monsters following him, but he forced himself to clear his mind and stand up.

"Thank you," he muttered. _He'll take what's given to him, and thank for it._ "Permission to leave?"

Cross blinked up at him. The purple glow in his shorts was obvious, and Dust averted his gaze off to the side. Shadows flicked in the corner of his vision. He looked the other direction. Quietly, to himself, he hoped Cross wouldn't tell him to make himself useful.

"Yeah. Of course," Cross said, to both his surprise and relief. 

Dust pulled his shorts back up, ignoring how wet they got immediately, and shortcut himself straight to his room, skipping his usual snack.

Cross stared at where he'd stood just a moment ago, and his browbones furrowed. His original approach worked much better than… the fiasco with Horror, but he was surprised that Dust didn’t mention a word of it. He’d expect at least one (or a dozen) of the blaster to be turned on him.

And why would Dust ask him for permission to leave? The only one who did that was him, when addressing Nightmare.

He thought of endless white, to will away the burning cloud of magic in his pelvis that had been begging to form.

He wasn't the boss. There was no reason for anyone to ask permission from him.

**Author's Note:**

> my twitter is @esqers ♥


End file.
